


Surrender Dorothy

by SilverLining2k6



Category: Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, F/M, Pining, Slow Burn, Unrequited Love, flangst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-02 12:13:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17264006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverLining2k6/pseuds/SilverLining2k6
Summary: Veronica considers the question.  "Okay, here's an analogy. Think of it like Dorothy Gale, trying to adjust to life in Kansas after living in OZ."Not canon-compliant, but spoilery through 3x22. Not a crossover fic.  Character tags will be updated upon introduction.





	1. Prologue - THE WIND BEGAN TO SWITCH, THE HOUSE, TO PITCH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love this fic SO much. I outlined it 7 or more years ago, and it's been my siren-song fic ever since, calling for me to come play when I'm supposed to be working on other things.  
> Like my other stories, this one will not be a major angst-fest from start to finish, but I'm warning you now, it starts out on a heartbreaking note. Because of that, I'm posting two chapters at once.
> 
> Suggested supplies for reading opening chapters:  
> \- Tissues  
> \- Warm blanket  
> \- Bubble wrap for your computer  
> \- Xanax, or other pharmaceutical equivalents.

 

 

_Logan once described our story as ‘Epic’._

_Of course, being Logan, he'd been referring to the stuff of movies. Sweeping vistas and the swell of violins. Lovers separated by cruel twists of fate, aching and longing for each other. Love conquering all._

_In his version of Epic, the lives ruined would be those who dared to come between us. The blood shed would be that of our enemies._

_We weren't that lucky._

 

###  **HEARST COLLEGE**  

Blame the balmy weather or maybe, the light, end-of-year schedules, but the entire Hearst student body seems to be outdoors today.

They cluster in groups all over campus, sipping frappés, soaking up the sun, and participating in the usual spring mating rituals.

Veronica pauses at the corner of the Murdock building and scans her surroundings.

Straight ahead, between her and the street, Jenny Budish and the rest of the Ski Patrol huddle in a loose group, laughing as they peer down at Nickerson's cell phone. Because rich kids, apparently, are not subject to the same rules and laws as everyone else.

To her left, by the building's front entrance, Domonick Desante gesticulates wildly to a guy in a sweater vest, still milking the story of his persecution at her hands, probably.

_Man, I need to stop making enemies._

Veronica rejects both options, instead taking a diagonal path across the campus lawn.

She refuses to lower her eyes; not even to avoid the near-constant stares and whispers. She'd never asked to be in a sex tape – it may be the _only_ thing she's innocent of – and she will not be shamed for being a typical college girl with normal sexual urges.

Anyway, one last jaunt across campus won't kill her. Her Stanford admissions packet sits on her desk at home, ready to be mailed, Dad's working on securing financial aid, and when she leaves here today, she'll never have to see this place again.

She shouldn't even be here now – her last final was two days ago – but this is one mission she can't put off any longer.

She skirts around a group of dudebros, and three heads turn, as if on puppet strings.

_Ah...Let me guess. You've seen me topless, you've seen me topless, you've seen me topless, and you...haven't?_

Dudebro number three whispers in the little guy's ear and his eyes grow wide and lascivious.

_But...you 'll see me topless later. Congratulations, you little prick. Hope your dick shrivels up and falls off._

“Hey Blondie! Watch out!”

Veronica ducks her head just in time to avoid being clotheslined by a neon green Frisbee.

Ignoring the shouts of disgruntled frat boys – _like that’s anything new_ – she picks up her pace, pulse racing in her throat from the near-miss.

Straight ahead, and partially obscured by Nelson Hall, a black SUV sits parked at the curb. It might be a Range Rover, it might not, but she intends to keep searching until she finds it.

Logan has been surprisingly evasive since last week's cafeteria altercation – avoiding his usual haunts and ignoring her calls and texts. She's given him ample time and space to get over his...whatever this is...but she leaves for her FBI internship tomorrow, and she’d prefer to track him down in public.

Drawing closer, she recognizes the triple-wave-shaped vinyl cling on the back passenger-side window – the logo for some surf brand or another.

_Yep, that's Logan._

So he's fine, physically, he's just purposely avoiding her. The knot of dread in her chest unravels, quickly replaced with righteous indignation.

_What the hell is HIS problem? I'M the injured party._

They broke up back in January, but she vaguely remembers his Business class letting out around 1:30. Assuming he heads straight to his car, she can expect a thirty-minute wait, give or take. Who knows how long he'll be if he stops to grab lunch with Dick or coffee with... _well that's over now._

Regardless, her Sac N' Pac bag contains drinks and snacks a-plenty and she's prepared to wait all day, if necessary.

Veronica lasts about five minutes before the comfortable heat of the midday sun begins scorching her scalp. Her hair feels hot to the touch and, of course, she’d neglected to bring a cap. She rummages through her bag for a hair tie, but comes up empty.

Checking the car is pointless - Logan is meticulous about keeping his vehicles clean and uncluttered - but she peers through the Rover's tinted windows, anyway. Nothing.

She could always wait inside the truck. If he didn't want her blasting his AC and using up his gas, he should've asked for his key back two breakups-ago.

Before resorting to that, she checks the trunk. Bingo! Her beach chair is still in there.

He'd purchased it last summer from some outdoor-living store with astronomical prices. _'_ _So_ _my girl's delicate skin doesn't burn while I'm surfing'_ he'd said, punctuating every other word with a kiss.

Summer's almost here.

If she were to follow her usual pattern, Logan-time would be fast-approaching. Long lazy days and steamy nights. Beaches and boat rides. Bare skin and tropical scents. A time to forget about homework and deadlines and securing her future.

Logan-time is the best of times - hedonism and excess and mind-blowing sex.

Also, utterly unsustainable.

An aching lump of regret swells in her throat.

It's okay. She'll have the FBI this summer, and hasn't that always been the dream?

Veronica grabs what resembles an over-sized backpack-on-wheels and slams the trunk. She wiggles and tugs on the turquoise canvas chair until she's freed it from its snug pouch, places it on the tree lawn next to the vehicle and unsnaps the fasteners.

The mechanism catches on one side of the chair as she's unfolding it, but she gives it a good shake and it opens.

Fully expanded, it transforms into a chaise with a thick, cushioned seat. Soft-sided coolers fold down under each arm, an attached shade umbrella clicks up to the sky, and an ergonomic head rest with integrated iPod speakers cradles her neck.

The chair is as ridiculous as its owner, and just like Logan, painfully easy to grow attached to.

Veronica tucks a cold soda in her cup holder, fishes a paperback novel from her bag and settles-in for the wait.

Her book – a thriller, highly recommended by Mac – seems interesting enough, but after twenty-minutes of skimming the same three paragraphs, she can admit it's just not meant to be.

Between passing groups of chattering students, her racing thoughts, and that tingling-between-the-shoulders feeling of being watched, she's far too keyed-up for reading.

To describe this past week as hell-on-earth would be an understatement. Her single-minded pursuit of justice, truth, or, _let's face it_ – _revenge_ – only managed to boomerang back on the people she loves most.

In isolation, Weevil's arrest on trumped-up parole violations wouldn't come as much of a shock, especially after the ID machine debacle a couple weeks back. But with hoodie-clad white boys roughing-up Wallace (twice), Mac facing expulsion for her actions in the Hearst lab, and D.A. Redding charging Dad with evidence tampering, coincidence is out of the question.

Jake Kane is flexing his muscles, giving her a taste of the damage he can inflict from his position of wealth and power.

Meanwhile, Gory Sorokin is still on the rampage, flooding Veronica's voicemail with threatening and blatantly creepy messages.

_If anything were to happen to Logan..._

Gory's probably identified him by now. How hard could it be? Ask-around about Veronica Mars and the name of her infamous ex-boyfriend is sure to come up.

She shouldn't have waited until the last possible day to force this confrontation, but, with them both being single now, she simply hadn't trusted herself to pound on his penthouse door. The odds of ending up in his bed...well, let's just say that would be a disaster.

She hasn't even seen him since that day in the cafeteria, when he walked away, proud and confident, head held high. And despite Beyoncé wailing _'Dangerously in Love'_ in her head, despite the adrenaline racing through her veins and Piz's whipped-puppy stare, she could no longer deny one simple truth: _I'm no good for him._

"I'm not built to stand on the sidelines," he’d told her that day months ago, while breaking her heart, and it finally clicked.

She makes dangerous enemies by her very nature. Logan's nature is to assume her problems as his own. To fight at her side. To take the punches for her. To shoulder her burdens.

By simply _being_ , she puts him in danger, and he's not likely to stop fighting her battles any time soon, no matter how nicely she asks.

Her only resort is to take herself out of the equation. First, by attending her FBI internship, and then Stanford.

She's permanently retiring from investigating, done exposing her loved-ones to danger. She's leaving Neptune. Forever.

Logan's shadow reaches her a moment before he does. He lifts one expressive brow. “Comfy?”

Veronica cups her right hand over her eyes shielding them from the sunlight. “I am, actually. This baby is the Cadillac of beach chairs. You should try it out sometime.”

She stands, pinning him with a reproachful expression. “You've been avoiding me.”

“And yet...here you are.” Logan thumbs the lift-gate button on his key fob. He snags her soda bottle from the cup holder, hands it to her, and grabs the chair.

Veronica follows him around the back of the truck. “We need to talk.”

“So talk.” He collapses the chair, shaking it on the left, where it appears to be stuck.

 _Here goes._ “I want you to hire a bodyguard.”

“You want me to _what?_ “ It's less of a laugh than a bitter burst of breath.

“You heard me, Logan. Hire that brute you paid to follow me around, or an ex-cop, or a security firm. Hire anyone.”

“No matter how many times I remind myself that you have no shame, you still always manage to surprise me.” Logan shakes his head.

“Fine. Call me a hypocrite. I'll own that.” Veronica grabs his arm. “Gory Sorokin, you know, that guy you tossed around the cafeteria? Logan, I watched his confession video – the one where he calmly described the day his father and uncle dismembered a body – and it was like he was recalling some quirky, ‘Take Your Kid To Work Day’ memory.”

“Ahh. A psychopath. My specialty.” Gently dislodging his arm from her grip, Logan jostles the chair again, then tries forcing it closed. When that doesn't work, he reaches through an opening in the canvas, feels around for a second and extracts a small obstruction.

One more hard jerk, and the chair collapses. Logan snaps it closed, stashes it in the trunk, and tosses the carrying bag on top.

“Can you try taking this seriously? He wants to kill you, and not only for revenge. He'll make it slow and painful, and he'll enjoy every second.”

“I'd like to see him try.” Logan glances down at the mangled piece of card stock he’d dislodged from the chair. He smooths it out with his thumb, sighs, and hands it to her.

_Oh no!_

The Topps trading card portrays Han Solo and Princess Leia. Han's huge hand cradles Leia's neck, his thumb skims her jawline, and his mouth hovers an inch above hers. The caption reads ‘STAR LOVERS’.

Veronica's heart constricts, as if it’s being squeezed. They both stare at the card, as if the rips and creases represent their broken relationship.

Logan swallows and slams the lift gate. “Gotta go, but I'll think about what you said.”

Veronica tucks the card in her jeans pocket and trails him around the truck's driver's side. “Why are you so surly with me? The last time we spoke, you seemed...” _Penitent? Remorseful?_

He exhales. “I'm not angry. I just think it’s time to jump off this merry-go-round.”

Great. They're on the same page. A clean break is for the best.

_So then, why does it feel like he's dumping me all over again?_

“Okay.” She nods, blinking fast to hold back the inevitable tears. “Well, I'm leaving for my FBI internship tomorrow, so...you know, have a great summer.”

_Have a great life._

“If the bad guys aren't shivering, they should be.”

Veronica speaks to his back as he reaches for his door handle. “When I said I wanted you out of my life forever. I was angry and lashing out. Maybe when I'm back on the West Coast we can work on fixing our friendship.”  They do have phones at Stanford, after all.

“No.”

“No?”

Logan turns back around. “I don't want to be your friend.”

Veronica inhales, cheeks stinging from his rejection.

His expression softens and he meets her eyes for the first time today. “I still love you, Veronica.”

_Oh._

“I don't want to be your friend. I want to be your boyfriend.” He steps closer. “Your lover. Your husband. Soul mate. Life companion. Any of the above – I'm not picky – but not your friend.”

Veronica's eyes flood and her throat closes-up.

He skims his fingertips over her temple. “Pretending this was merely friendship wasn't fair to anyone.”

" _You_ wanted it. You visited me in jail, acting all mature and talking about being adults.”

“It seemed necessary at the time. The thought of...”

He breaks off, glancing over his shoulder as a black pickup truck drives by, a posse of whooping Pi Sigs in its bed. “I pray they never reproduce.”

“Including Dick?”

“He wasn't with them, but, yeah, especially Dick.”  The levity disappears as quickly as it appeared.

Logan's expression is grave when he turns his attention back to her. “We hurt people, Veronica. I swore things would change after we broke up. That I would be a great boyfriend to Parker and a better person overall. I was dating the kindest girl I've ever known and the high point of most days was those five minutes around 9:00 AM, when you and I had class in the same building and might get to walk together.”

_Me too!_

That electric thrill of her first Logan-glimpse of the day, the rush of walking beside him without touching, and the agony of parting without a goodbye kiss. She'd lived and died for those moments.

“I ran into Piz this morning in the coffee line, and he told me about your breakup. Veronica, he looked like he'd been run over by a bus.”

“That was your fist.”

“I meant emotionally.” A ghost of a grin surfaces on his face and disappears. “Look, if we ever want to have healthy relationships with other people, we need to just forget about being friends. At least for now. Okay?”

Or they could just skip the other relationships altogether.

_Why bother with something not good, just because it's something?_

_Especially when you know the difference._

“That's probably a smart idea.” A rogue tear escapes to roll down her cheek.

Logan tenderly wipes it away with his thumb. “Good luck with the FBI. I have no doubt you'll be sitting in J. Edgar's chair in record time.”

“Mueller's.” She corrects, absently, adding, in response to his blank stare, “Robert Mueller's chair. He's the FBI Director. You know what? Not important.”

“Goodbye, Veronica.” He opens his car door. Lifts one knee to climb in.

_It can't end. Not like this. Not ever._

“Logan...” Her voice breaks as she calls his name. “It's NOT over.”

He turns back around, resigned, whispers, “I know.”

“It'll never be over.”

Logan closes his eyes and nods. “I know.”

Veronica hurls herself at him. Kisses his mouth and climbs his body like the world's clumsiest panda.

He resists, lips tight and neck stiff, and for a long, excruciating moment, she panics. He's not going to kiss her back, he's rejecting her.

Then, with a groan, he opens up. His hands move to support her thighs and, after slamming the door with his hip, he spins her around and presses her against the truck.

The rear door handle digs into her lower back, Logan kisses her and the world shifts back into orbit. She feels whole again. Electric. And who cares about the past? Who cares if their natures don't mesh? This is real happiness. The only thing worth fighting for.

A yellow hummer drives by, the passenger calling, “Get a room!” though the open window.

Logan pulls back. “You know, this isn't going to fix anything. It never does.” He gently lowers her to the pavement.

“It's a start.” She grasps his beige cotton over-shirt in both fists, and pulls him back to her mouth. Speaks against his lips between kisses. “We'll talk every day while I'm away. Phone. Text. Email. Whatever. We'll try that whole ‘communication thing’ you're always talking about. Figure out how we keep going wrong, and how to make things work.”

“That sounds an awful lot like _‘blame Logan for everything’_. Since everyone knows you're perfect and never wrong.”

“Logan...’ Veronica pokes out her lower lip and stares up from under her lashes. “Know what I hate more than being wrong?”

Smirk. “Admitting it?”

“Missing you.” She sweeps her hands over his chest. “And knowing it was my choice. That it doesn't need to be that way.”

He searches her eyes for the truth. “You honestly want to make this work?”

“Yes,” she answers, meaning it with all her heart.

Why can't she have it all? The dream career AND the boy who makes her heart flutter?

She tilts her head, inviting him to trail kisses down her neck. Shivers at the touch of his mouth on her skin. “I want to be your...”

“Hmm?” His lips thrum against her pulse. “My what?”

“Your...Star Lover.”

Logan snickers. “You think a princess and a guy like me...?”

“Who are you trying to kid? We both know which one of us is the princess.”

Pretending affront, he lifts his head high and pushes his hair back, regally. “When do you leave for Virginia?”

“Tomorrow afternoon.”

“Fuck! Too soon!” He sighs, touches lips to her forehead, and takes a step back. “Maybe it's for the best.”

“Why?” _Don't you dare toy with me, Logan._

Shrug. “We can spend our time apart getting our shit together, which will be a lot easier without sex getting in the way.”

“I suppose you're right.” She bites her lip and looks up into his eyes. “On second thought, fuck it. We still have tonight. Let's get naked and screw.”

Logan releases his breath with a little _'whew'_. “God, I'm glad you said that. Dick's out of town on some father/son bonding road trip, so we'll have the penthouse to ourselves. We can grab takeout on the way home.”

“I have to drop something off at the office first. I'll meet you there. Give me twenty minutes?”

“Don't be late.” He kisses the tip of her nose and backs away. “Manicotti?”

His beautiful smile makes Veronica's heart skip a beat. She can't remember the last time she's seen him happy.

“Manicotti sounds perfect. Don't forget to order extra garlic bread. The kind with four types of cheese.”

“What kind of monster do you take me for?”  Logan's reaching for his car door when a red dot sweeps across his black tee-shirt and settles over his heart.

Somebody playing with a laser pointer? She scrutinizes the students across the street, but nobody appears to be paying them any attention.

Somewhere nearby, a car backfires. Veronica glances over her shoulder, scanning the road.

When she turns back around, impossibly, the red light has liquefied and Logan is staring, baffled, at his chest.

His knees buckle and he collapses to the pavement.

“LOGAN!” Veronica runs to him, skidding to her knees, and rolls him over, the reality of the situation sinking in.

There's blood.

So. Much. Blood.

“HELP! Somebody call 911!”

Due to the positioning of the truck, the shot could only have come from somewhere on the opposite side of the street. Somewhere with a direct line of sight. But she’d looked over there. Wouldn't she have noticed someone pointing a gun at them?

Her gaze lifts to Fisk Hall. Four stories high. Dozens of windows. An experienced shooter with a scope...

_A shooter who might still be up there..._

Time slows and the back of her neck tingles.  She isn't strong enough to lift Logan or drag him to safety, so she shifts her body, presenting her unguarded back to a gunman in hopes of shielding Logan's head and torso.

“Get out of here.” Logan's whispers. “Not safe.”

“Like hell I will. They want to shoot you, it’s going to have to go through me first.”

She drags up his tee-shirt, pressing it to the wound, but the blood is flowing faster than the material can absorb. She needs his other shirt, but his body is weighing it down.

Students are beginning to congregate, filling the road around them, wide-eyed and useless. A few have phones pressed to their ears. A couple more hold them up to record. Nobody steps in to help.

Not until a tall, Middle-Eastern woman in a rosy-hued hijab pushes through the crowd and drops to her knees. Logan's partner for a group project last Fall, if Veronica remembers correctly. He'd introduced her as _Zara_.

“You've really done it this time, Echolls.” Zara's accented-tone is deceptively light, as if trying to keep him calm.

She helps extract him from his button-up shirt, moves Veronica's hands out of the way, and uses the fabric to help staunch the blood.

“Thank you,” Veronica whispers. She wants to say more, but Logan is trying to speak, bloody bubbles forming on his lips.

Veronica squeezes his hand, and leans down to his ear.

She's still there when two paramedics arrive. Still babbling a steady stream of promises.

“We'll be together and happy. I'll be the best girlfriend ever. No more stupid breakups. We'll buy a house and move in and  get married. The whole picket fence thing you always wanted but pretended not to care about. Anything you want – even the dirty stuff – just as long as you stay with me. As long as you fight for me.”

She doesn't tell him she loves him.

Not now. It's too final.

She'll tell him later, when he's recovering. When those momentous words won't be forever-linked to blood and violence. And he'll recognize her sincerity. He'll know she's not just saying it out of obligation.

The taller paramedic - red-haired and freckled - crouches down and speaks quietly to Zara. He weaves his arms through hers, and at his signal, she lets go of Logan and scrambles back several feet.

He's looking at Veronica and his lips are moving, but the rushing sound in her brain drowns out his words.

He addresses his partner - a buff Asian guy - and Veronica finds herself being hauled to her feet and dragged away from Logan.

“You don't understand! He needs me. And if he knows I need him too, he'll fight for me.”

The man releases her with a strict warning. “You need to stay back and give us space to work.”

“Please! Just let me hold his hand.”

“Not now.”

Paramedic Two moves into the spot she previously occupied and leans over Logan, completely blocking Veronica's view.

Someone clasps her right hand and squeezes. A familiar, citrus-based perfume.

Parker Lee. Her eyes are closed, tears flow freely down her cheeks and her lips move in a whisper.

Is that... _she's praying?_   Something about Heaven and God's welcoming embrace.

“NO!” Veronica wrenches her hand away. “Stop that! He's going to be okay.”

“Veronica...” Parker reaches out, but Veronica recoils.

Every face reflects the same knowing pity. Parker's, Zara's, the other onlookers. Even the ghouls with the camera phones.

_They think he's..._

“FUCK YOU!” she roars. “Every last one of you! This is Logan Fucking Echolls.”

Nobody responds.

She sneers and turns in a circle, taking-in each unblinking face. Flings a hand in Logan's direction. “He's survived things that would make the rest of you shit your pants and lose your goddamn minds. Rogue feds, an entire biker gang, murderers, and rapists. They all tried to take him down and they all FAILED. You think THIS is going to break him? Gory Sorokin? Some wannabe mobster punk?”

“Veronica...You need—” Parker tries again.

“Leave me alone! ALL of you! Take your pity and your camera phones and shove 'em up your asses.”

Logan doesn't need this bullshit. He needs all her focus and attention.

Veronica can see him now. He’s staring at her, all the love she’d pretended not to see for so long, written clearly across his features.

She pleads with him. “Fight for me, Logan. I need you! I told you it would never be over, and you agreed. Now prove it, dammit!”

_Prove it. Prove it. Prove it._

She moves her lips in a silent mantra, willing him to keep fighting.

Minutes pass, and the red-headed paramedic releases a defeated sigh.

He looks up at his partner with a tiny head shake, whispers, _“He's gone,”_ and closes Logan's eyelids.

_Gone where?_

_He can't mean...._

Veronica shatters.

Logic and reason cease to exist. She's barely human as she struggles to get to him. To break free of a dozen hands grabbing at her, holding her back. Keeping her from him.

She screams his name, over and over again, fighting to wrench herself free.

“LOGAAAN! LOGAAAN! LOGAAN!”

She screams, and the sound looks like darkness. Blocking-out the onlookers. The paramedics. The campus. The sun. The sky.

“LOGAAAN! LOGAAAN! LOGAAAAAAN!”

Without warning, the hands are gone. She's free.

And she's falling, falling...

Black  
       ness.   
                 E  
                   n  
                    g  
                      u  
                        l  
                         f  
                          s

                             He  
                                r.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You, right about now:  
> [](https://imgur.com/qnZeY4b)
> 
> Me:  
> [](https://imgur.com/GwkouOV)
> 
> You:  
> [](https://imgur.com/ULSN0jT)
> 
> And Me:  
> [](https://imgur.com/LVcV88l)
> 
> Just give me one more chapter before you Nope out.  
> Trust me. I've never let you down. 
> 
> Okay, sure. Fine. There were those chapters I promised to post in a week and it ended up taking a year. But I've never let Logan/Veronica down, so...?


	2. 1. WAKE UP YOU SLEEPYHEAD, RUB YOUR EYES, GET OUT OF BED

 

A machine beeps steadily. A squeaky wheel rolls across a floor. Phones ring somewhere in the distance.

Veronica inhales and screams.

She needs to get to him, but she can't see. Her eyelids are glued shut.

She's thrashing. She's tangled in tubes and wires, attached to her skin, and limiting her movement. Confining her.

"LOGAAAN! LOGAAAN! LOGAAAN!"

She kicks off the blanket weighing down her legs. Something heavy crashes to the floor in a clatter of shattering glass. An alarm begins wailing.

She screams.

Running feet. Voices. Bodies pressing in around her. Hands reaching for her, pinning her down, restraining her.

She needs to tell him. If she tells him, he'll keep fighting. He won't give up on her.

"LOGAAAN!"

She breaks through the crust sealing her left eye.

Blurry figures surround her. Light glints off a hypodermic needle.

She screams.

"LOGAAAN!"

She struggles harder, her foot connecting with soft flesh.

A man's voice. "Oof! Hold her still!"

The syringe plunges into her flesh, and her muscles stop cooperating.

_I never told him I love him._

The world disappears.

 

 

 

 

She fades in and out. It's nighttime, it's morning, it's evening. It's afternoon.

Voices speak to her. Ones she recognizes, ones she doesn't. She mumbles answers to questions she's already forgotten. Someone shines light in her eyes. She kicks them.

More beeping machines. Pungent bleach and cleaning supplies. Canned laughter from a distant television. Squeaky shoes on a hard floor.

Veronica's pillow is fluffier and somebody has cleaned the sleep from her eyes. Her hair is pulled back too tightly. It tugs at her scalp in a dozen locations, and her lips are chapped and split.

A woman moves about the room, singing softly under her breath. _"Looking everywhere, haven't found him yet...He's the big affair I cannot forget...Only man I ever think of with regret."_ Her voice is lovely, her tone from a long ago era.

She shuffles some papers, hums the next verse as she reads, then picks her song back up. _"There's a somebody I'm longing to see...I hope that he...turns out to be...Someone to watch over me."_

_Logan!_

Veronica inhales, but this time the scream won't come.

_He's gone._

And she, apparently, has suffered an emotional collapse.

The steps move closer, and she holds her breath, staying perfectly still as cotton fabric brushes against her fingertips.

So where is she? Neptune General? The...place for crazy people? What's that called again?

She plays possum as the woman interacts with the machines around her. A wheel squeaks, buttons beep lightly when pressed. A tube draped over her inner elbow is moved to the outside of her arm.

The singing resumes, moving away from the bed, out of the room and down the hall. _"Won't you tell him please to put on some speed...Follow my lead...oh, how I need...Someone to watch over me."_

The lyrics are a knife to her heart - a cruel reminder of how very alone she is. Forever.

Veronica opens her eyes and sits up, blinks and squints as her vision adjusts. Her head... _buzzes?_ ... _spins?_

Light streams through a window - that pinkish-gray hue of barely-past-sunrise.

Predictably, she's in a hospital room. Her hands and feet are free of restraints. Apparently, nobody considers her a threat to herself or others.

_Little do they know._

_What's that saying?_ _Hell_ _hath no fury..._

Veronica chooses the side with the machines - her right. No point in dislodging anything prematurely.

She carefully swings her legs over the side of the bed, slides off the edge of the mattress to the floor, and stands up.

So what now? Methodically remove all the tape and needles? Or turn off the machines first?

Another wave of dizziness surges through her and she grabs for anything within reach. Her knees give out, like they're made of rubber, and she topples to the floor, pulling the IV pole down on top of her.

_That's gonna leave a bruise._

As she pushes the pole to an upright position, her pinky catches on a wire, dislodging an electrode from her chest. An alarm goes off.

_Damn! So much for stealth._

She can't get back up on her own. Her arms are weak and her legs are practically useless. Not paralyzed - she can wiggle her toes - but incapable of supporting her weight for more than a second or two.

Five feet ahead, a handrail wraps around a corner and she drags herself across the floor on her belly.

As her fingers close around the cool metal rail, something tugs painfully between her legs. She looks over her shoulder, notices a clear tube originating under her hospital gown and terminating in a silicon bag attached to the foot of her hospital bed.

_A catheter?_ How the hell is she supposed to remove that?

Swift footsteps approach from the hall, and sweep into the room.

“Oh my word! What were you thinking? You could've hurt yourself.”

Veronica rolls over onto her back. “Ouch.”

“Well aren't you a regular Beatrix Kiddo?” The nurse crouches down, knees cracking. “Let's get you back into bed.”

She's unusually tall for a woman - six feet, at the least. Strong too, as she effortlessly hoists Veronica off the floor and carries her back to bed.

Tugging on a pair of latex gloves, she efficiently untangles the wires, tubes, and hoses twisted around Veronica's limbs, reattaches the chest sensor, examines her under the hospital gown – “Good, no bleeding.” – and covers her with a blanket.

Necessities complete, the nurse smiles, dimples denting her plump cheeks. “Welcome back, Veronica. Thirsty?”

Veronica nods.   _Back from where?_   Her throat is sandpaper. She tries speaking, but only produces a pathetic-sounding croak.

“Let's sit you up.” Removing and disposing of her gloves, the nurse clicks one of the siderails into an upright position and pushes a button, elevating the head of the bed.

She appears to be in her thirties, and despite her modern lavender scrubs, she projects a vintage aesthetic, with her shockingly red lipstick and her strawberry blonde hair pinned back into 1940's-style victory rolls.

She pours water from a grayish-pink plastic pitcher into a matching cup and hands it to Veronica. “My name is Adele, I'm guessing you have questions?”

_Not really._ Next to Logan's fate, her own confusion and disorientation rates around a three on the things-that-matter scale.

Veronica lifts the cup to her lips. Cool liquid hits the back of her desperately parched throat.

Adele continues, “I'm so thrilled to finally meet you. To hear your friends and family talk, we were in the presence of a flesh-and-blood saint.”

She nearly chokes on her water.   _Saint?_   “Yeah, that's me. Veronica Mars. Patron saint of karmic ricochets.” She swallows several times, sets the cup on a wheeled table, and takes-in her surroundings for the first time.

The room is professionally decorated and large enough to contain the front half of her Sunset Cliffs apartment with space left over. The walls are a soothing, robin's egg blue, with chocolate brown accents. The floor is a multi-toned Pergo.

To her left, a teal upholstered visitor's chair is angled toward her bed. Several feet beyond that, a matching…uh…furniture piece for three sits under a large window, throw pillows arranged just-so.

The other side of the room is comprised of a dark wood armoire and a wall-mounted television. Matching granite slabs make-up a built-in writing desk and a recessed wall shelf.

Two glass vases on the shelf contain long-stemmed red roses, dark and curling-in at the edges. Between them, a larger white vase holds a mixed-flower bouquet in an explosion of bright, sunny colors.

A 5x7 vinyl portfolio with an embossed Neptune General logo sits on the desktop. A teal chair is pushed underneath.

Every detail, down to the high thread-count sheets and spiderweb-soft blanket screams money and opulence. Even her bed is roomier than necessary. Queen-sized, at least.

_How?_

As a small business owner, her dad can afford only the most bare-bones of health insurance plans, the kind that doesn't cover single rooms, let alone luxury rooms. Unless "Big Murder, Small Town" had a sudden resurgence in popularity (entirely possible in the wake of Logan's death) her father couldn't possibly pay for this.

“I have to go.” Veronica gestures to the tubes and wires. “Can you get these off me?”

Adele places a gentle, but firm hand on her shoulder. “You've already seen what happened when you tried getting out of bed. You think your second attempt will be any different?”

“So find me a wheelchair. Please! I'll have my dad return it later.”

“It's not that simple, dear.”

“I can't stay here.” She sweeps her hand out, indicating her surroundings. “My dad can't afford a...” _Damn, what's that word?_   “... _private_ room.”

“Veronica.” Nurse Adele's voice demands attention. “You've been in that bed for almost three months. You can't simply get up and leave. You're not physically capable.”

“Three months?” Veronica's scalp prickles. She assumed she’d been here a day. Maybe two.

That would make it, what? September?

_I missed his funeral._

_I_ _didn't get to say goodbye. I didn't get to tell him!_

A choking sound escapes from her throat, and her eyes fill. She presses a fist to her mouth.

Adele runs a comforting hand over her back. “Sweetheart, You suffered a traumatic brain injury and fell into a coma. You need to give yourself time to heal.”

Brain injury? Did she crack her skull on the concrete when she blacked out?

“I can't.” Veronica's voice crumples with grief. “I can't just sit around doing nothing.”

“And why on earth not?”

‘Because...” She fumbles for the right words. Thinks of Logan, in his bedroom, defending his actions against Piz. “Because someone always has to pay.”

_Isn't that the rule we live by?_

“For your hospital bills? They're being handled.”

_By who?_

With two notable exceptions, every rich person of her acquaintance is either dead or far, far away from Neptune, and she can't imagine Dick Casablancas ponying-up for her medical care.

**N** ow she comprehends why that name, Beatrix Kiddo, sounded so familiar. While Nurse Adele had only been teasing, she could not comprehend how close to the truth she was.

Veronica _is_ The Bride, alone and afraid, seething with fury, and forever separated from her love.

So, that would make Bill... _Jake Kane._

Adele is still staring at her, expectantly.

“They killed my boyfriend,” Veronica says, “I loved him, and we'd finally agreed to fight for our relationship and they took him from me. They need to pay.”

_There. I said it aloud. It's as good as a promise._

Adele's brow furrows. “You're mistaken, Veronica. Your boyfriend visits you several times a week.”

A spark of hope flutters in her belly, warming her from the inside-out. “He does? Logan?”

“I don't know his name, honey. I work nights.  I only know the other nurses gossip about how handsome he is.”

Veronica grabs her arm. “Logan's alive?”

“Dark hair?”

“Yes.”

“Blue eyes?”

“Piz?” It’s like plunging through thin ice into near-freezing waters. “Fucking Piz is _not_ my boyfriend.”

She's not proud of her sudden rush of hatred toward him. For getting her hopes up. For being alive while Logan... _isn't_ .

Adele shrinks back, forehead creasing. “Well, I don't know anything about that.”

_More flies with honey, Veronica._

She tries a different approach. “What can I do to get out of here faster?”

“I don't suppose anybody has ever accused you of being a quitter.” Adele sighs. “Only Dr. Joshi can say when you're healthy enough to go home, and you're only going to get healthy under a medically-supervised recovery regimen.”

“How long will that take?”

“Don't take this the wrong way, but you should thank your lucky stars that you were capable of getting out of that bed and that you don't need to relearn how to speak.”

She has a point. Duncan's cousin, Marina, spent a month or so in a coma after falling off a jungle gym in third grade, and years later, she still struggled with her communication and dragged one foot behind her when she walked.

“You win. I won't try to leave again, but I want all this...stuff removed. Especially the catheter.”

Adele doesn't seem to find this demand unreasonable. “I'll contact Dr. Joshi to see what we can do. My shift ends in about twenty minutes, but I'll leave a note for the incoming nurse to follow-up.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“The doctor will stop in and check on you some time after three, and I'll contact your parents to let them know you're awake and lucid. In the meantime, do you think you can tolerate some soup?”

“Soup?” The wall clock reads 6:40 AM and Veronica's appetite is nonexistent. She could waste away to nothing for all she cares. From the emaciated look of her arms, she's already halfway there.

“The stronger your body is, the sooner you'll be able to go home.”

_In that case..._

“Fine. I'll eat. Bring me some spinach or quinoa, or whatever will make me strongest fastest. I won't taste it anyway.”

“How about we start you off with broth? If you can keep that down, we'll discuss solid food.”

Adele rolls the bedside table forward, swiveling it around over Veronica's lap like a desk, then refills the plastic cup from the pitcher.

“Drink as much water as you'd like, and I'll get started on that broth.” She turns to leave.

Veronica stops her. “While I'm waiting, can you bring me a notebook and a...um...” Unable to find the word, she mimes the motion of writing. “I need to make a list.”

A hesitant expression crosses the nurse's face, and she chooses her words carefully. “You need to prepare yourself. Many TBI survivors experience problems with written language and hand-eye coordination.”

“Consider me prepared.” Veronica points to the built-in desktop. “I think I see a... _pen_ over there.”

 

 

 

“Logan Echolls is dead.”  She speaks to the ceiling tiles.

May as well get used to saying it.

He’s dead, and everything aches. Her bruised heart feels like it’s been locked in a metal chamber, where every beat painfully bounces and reverberates; she can barely swallow around the lump in her throat; and her belly is a pit of nausea. 

It’s as if half her soul has been ripped away and her body is in shock.

She catches herself cringing at the analogy. Then cringes at the cringe.

_Because God forbid, Veronica Mars experience human emotions._

God forbid she say, _‘I love you, too’_ , or _‘My life doesn’t make sense without you in it,’_ or _‘You’re the one I want to grow old with’_. 

God forbid she give anyone – let alone, Logan ‘Machiavelli’ Echolls – that kind of power over her. 

_Congratulation, Veronica!  You win!_

_Scores have been tabulated and you’ve pulled-off a record-setting two-year stretch of concealing your emotions and hiding your vulnerability._

_Grand prize?  An all-expenses-paid opportunity to die alone, without the love your life._

Nothing has _ever_ hurt like this before.

Not Lilly’s death (sandwiched between Duncan’s betrayal, Lianne’s abandonment, and her rape, she’d spent months too numb to feel anything), not even those hours after graduation when she thought her father was dead. Of course, Logan had been there that night. Holding her and keeping her safe. A repetitive, but comforting whisper, reminding her how very sorry he was, how he was there for her no matter what, and later, when he thought she was fast asleep, that he loved her, and that as long as he walked this earth, she would never have to be alone. _We’re epic, Veronica. I know it my heart._

Epic Love can go fuck itself. 

It wasn’t supposed to end this way, with him dead and her a widow at nineteen _._ And fuck anyone who contradicts her choice of words. ‘Girlfriend-of-the-deceased’ is too trifling, too insignificant a label to describe what they shared.

He was hers and she was his, and no ring or certificate could ever change that. 

 

 

 

_Knock-knock_.

The doorknob turns. “Hello?”

“Come in.” Veronica quickly flips her notebook back to the first page.

With its glittery unicorn cover and rotating pastel background-images, the spiral-bound blank book was clearly intended for little girls. According to Nurse Karen, it was the only notebook in the gift shop.

_Liar._

The door opens, admitting a middle-aged man in a lab coat, glossily-bald, with pale brown skin and South Asian features. “Veronica! Great to see you awake. I'm Dr. Joshi.”

He crosses to where she sits at the writing desk and thrusts out his hand.

She considers the gesture for a moment, her anger and grief too fresh and overwhelming to give a shit about social niceties.

But this man is the gatekeeper to her freedom. If she wants to be released, she’ll need to cooperate. To do whatever’s necessary to prove she’s healthy.

And once she's home, she can burn the fucking world down.

She shakes his hand, tepidly. “Veronica Mars.”

_Ruiner_ _of lives. Destroyer of everything I love._

His brow lowers. “I have to say, when your nurse contacted me this morning about removing your catheter, I had my reservations. The last thing I expected was to find you out of bed a few hours later.” His accented voice contains a faint musical lilt.

“I'm an overachiever.” Veronica shrugs and fakes a smile. “And anyway, the lighting is much better over here.”

“I see...” The doctor studies her, shrewd eyes cataloging clues like some kind of medical Sherlock Holmes – her pale blue cotton robe, the folding wheelchair she’d manipulated Nurse Karen into bringing her, the remains of lunch - an empty soup bowl, crust from a grilled cheese sandwich, and a few crinkle-cut carrots, left-over from her steamed veggies.

“May I?” He inclines his head toward her notebook.

Veronica hands it over.

The first page is innocuous enough. Convinced the staff would be invested in her ability to write (or lack of), she’d created a decoy list. Things a less... _revenge-minded_ girl might be concerned about after losing three months of her life:  bank account balance, scholarship status, recent addresses for Mac and Wallace.

_Nothing to worry about, here. As long as you don't flip to the center of the book._

"Very legible. Is this your usual handwriting?"

“Close enough.” She had painstakingly formed each letter, like back in elementary school, omitting, by necessity, any ornamentation or flourishes.

But he doesn't need to know that. Any sign of weakness could be used as an excuse to prolong her stay.

“Impressive."  He hands it back. "Well, let's get you back into bed for a quick examination.”

Ignoring his offered hand, she stands on her own, just long enough to swivel into the wheelchair, notebook tucked between her arm and body. She rolls across the room and reverses the process bedside.

Dr. Joshi observes this without comment, recognizing her need to prove herself.

“I hear you gave the nurses quite a scare the other day,” he says, once she's situated.

“Scare? Did my heart stop beating or something?”

“No, nothing like that.” He shakes his head, and rests a calming hand on her shoulder. “Just a bit of blood-curdling screaming. To hear them talk, Jamie Lee Curtis has nothing on you.” He winks, as if sharing a private joke.

Veronica isn't amused and she can't quite summon any sympathy for the scared nurses. Logan is dead and she can't do anything about it from a stupid hospital room.

But...the doctor's face is kindly and his eyes twinkle with mirth. He clearly meant no offense. To him, she's just a broken body needing fixing.

“The other day? Wasn't that yesterday?”

“Four days ago, actually. Monday. You've been in and out ever since. Waking occasionally for a few minutes, and sleeping the rest of the time.”

He shines a tiny flashlight in her eyes, leans closer, smelling strongly of medical-grade hand soap. “That's a good thing, by the way. Sleep is restorative, and your body required a lot of recuperation. We took you in for an MRI yesterday, and the results look very promising.”

“When can I go home?”

“That remains to be seen, but I'm optimistic about your recovery. You're one of the lucky ones.”

She snorts, bitterly. “Lucky, how?”

‘Your family brought in a physiotherapist to work with you several times a week.” Noticing Veronica's look of confusion, he elaborates, “For a comatose patient, a physiotherapist can be the difference between muscle atrophy and a full recovery. They typically massage and exercise the limbs. _Your_ physiotherapist is a lovely young woman with a more...holistic mind/body approach. A real blessing for you and your family.”

Dr. Joshi keeps up a steady stream of questions as he examines her, testing her memory and cognition.

“Veronica Lake Mars...”   _Sigh._   “Yep. Veronica Lake. Dad's a huge Film Noir fan...August 18th, 1987...Keith and Lianne Mars...Reynolds. Nope. No siblings...One dog. Backup. B-A-C-K-U-P. As in _'I radioed for backup'_ . Pit bull. Yes, a  _very_  good boy.”

He glances up from his notes. “Do you remember your first teacher?”

“Kindergarten? That was Mrs. Carlson.” A kind, red-haired woman, with watery eyes so pale, Veronica could never determine whether they were blue or green or gray. “She gave me a special award for earning the most gold stars that year.”

“Once an overachiever...” He grins at her. “And the name of your high school?”

“Neptune High.” She pastes on a cheerleader's smile. “Go, Pirates!”

“Good…good.”

At Dr. Joshi's request, she recites the alphabet (backwards and forwards), runs through her multiplication tables (sixes through nines), and names at least a dozen state capitals.

The questions trail off and she listens in only the most subconscious of ways. Enough to open her mouth for the cold thermometer, to hold out her arm for the blood pressure cuff. To push against his hand with her fist, with her knee, with her foot.

Mentally, she's a thousand miles away.

Her plan is still in its infancy stage. Despite her rage and impatience, she’d learned the hard way about the dangers of acting hastily.

Not to say she’s been idle.  Between naps, she’s completed two “Jake Kane” brainstorming sessions: his strengths and weaknesses, his secrets, his known associates, and that’s just to start.

Veronica has no clear memory of meeting the man. As far back as her early childhood, he’d always been Uncle Jake, long before she’d known him as Lilly’s dad.  Between her natural inquisitiveness and sixteen-plus years of observations, she has a unique advantage here. Any information – no matter how trivial it might seem at the moment – could be the key to bringing him to his knees.

Jake may not have pulled the trigger – he would never get his own hands dirty. But he could’ve stopped it. By leashing his dog, by demanding he stand down, by declaring them off-limits. He could have saved Logan’s life. 

_But why would he? A child for a child, right?  Shame Aaron didn’t live long enough to barely-suffer._

Dr. Joshi’s voice brings her back to the present.  “Well, everything seems to be in working order. I'm very encouraged by your physical condition.”

“Thank God.”

 “This is the part where I would prepare you for a long recovery period and warn you not to expect miracles.” He peels off his gloves, discarding them in the trash. “But everything I’ve observed today might already be described as miraculous. I expect you'll be walking in no time."

Perfect. The kind of revenging she has in mind can't be accomplished from a hospital.

The...uncoded...decoded - no, _decrypted_ \- hard drive is still locked in a secret safety-deposit box at Neptune Savings and Loans, rented in Wallace's name.

And Kane still makes a million dollars before breakfast.

Dr. Joshi is staring at her, expectantly.

“Huh? Can you repeat that?”

“I asked if you could tell me who the president is.”

Veronica stares at him. _Who gives a fuck? Logan is dead._

“Um...Bush. George W. Bush.”

_Dubya._

_Sounds like Gorya._

Gorya Sorokin who, for all she knows, is still out there walking the streets as a free man.

Dozens of people witnessed his threat to kill Logan, but would that be enough to convict him?  Any competent lawyer would argue he was merely trying to save face after a public humiliation.

Veronica knows very little about him except that he's a scumbag psychopath with Russian mob connections and a small penis. Unfortunately, a lack of intelligence is not one of his shortcomings.  

He would've known to ditch the gun immediately. Somewhere it would never be found, like off the side of the Coronado Bridge. And there would be no gunshot residue on his hands by the time they picked him up.

Assuming the new sheriff even bothered to investigate. With Logan's influential relatives already dead and buried, who's left to incentivize Vinnie to do his job?

Nausea churns in her belly and her shoulders curl forward over her chest.

Sensing her shift in mood, Dr. Joshi pats her shoulder. "Tell you what. How about you get some rest and we'll talk again tomorrow?"

Veronica waves him off with a dismissive flick of the hand and the gesture reminds her so much of Logan her eyes prickle.

Dr. Joshi exits the room, with a final, "Goodnight, Veronica."

 

She should've stopped it.

Of course Logan would never walk away after watching Gory humiliate her. She should've physically dragged him from the cafeteria. Distracted him with the true story of The Castle.

And she should've told him.

While he lay, bleeding and dying, she could've told him. She had been so sure he would make it, and that they would have the rest of their lives to talk about love.

Closing her eyes, Veronica imagines Logan's face. The warmth of his eyes, the amused twist of his lips. His unconditional love.

Why hadn't she reciprocated? Why had she let him die never hearing the words? 

Why had she let him die at all?

They'd said their goodbyes that day, and he was halfway in his truck when she called him back. To kiss him, to keep him, to weave her web more permanently around him.

_It's not over,'_ she'd told him. _'It'll never be over,'_

And now it is, thanks to her. Forever.

Wasn't the mutilated card enough of a sign?

At age thirteen she would've shrieked in denial - or laughter - at the mere suggestion that she might someday fall in love with Logan Echolls. She liked him, obviously, considered him a close friend, and one her favorite people to kill time with. But _love_ ? _Ewww_ ! Never! And anyway, Lilly already called dibs.

While visiting a weekend flea market with her father, she'd stumbled upon a vintage metal R2D2 lunchbox stuffed to capacity with hundreds of Star Wars trading cards. Despite the high price tag, despite her lack of series knowledge and her dad's misgivings, she decided it was worth two-month's-worth of allowance to buy it for Logan's birthday.

Of course, as her father predicted, Dick and Madison ridiculed her 'garage sale' gift, but Logan told them to shut up, that it was his favorite present.

Later, after the other guests left, they sat on his bed, sorting the cards into stacks - first by collection, then by numerical order. Every so often, a card would make him smile, and he'd pause to describe a certain scene or moment.

One card made them both giggle. Not because of the mere inches between Han Solo and Leia's lips - they weren't _that_ young and naive - but because of its caption: "STAR LOVERS".

[](https://imgur.com/u7bULrF)

It was just...sooo corny. At least for a pair of thirteen year olds. Who - besides Lilly Kane - dared use the word _'lovers'_ with a straight face?

They made a pile of duplicates as they sorted and, once finished, he offered her first dibs. Veronica had declined the stack, taking only the twin STAR LOVERS card. How could she resist?

She's had it ever since - or at least until last summer - a makeshift bookmark that never failed to put a smile on her face. A symbol of their enduring friendship.

And later, after they'd kissed and touched, after they became _lovers_ , a visual reminder that the universe works in mysterious ways.

Seeing it ripped and mangled should have been a giant neon sign. A warning for her to let him go and give him space. He would have come back eventually. Right?

Now, she'll never have the chance to find out.

Veronica drifts off into a fitful sleep.

 

 

 

Paper scratches against paper - the turning of a page. A rhythmic tapping of one shoe on the floor.

Someone is sitting in the visitor's chair to Veronica's right.

She considers ignoring the visitor; feigning sleep a little longer, until they give up and leave. But the faint whiff of cedar and leather aftershave - as familiar as her own hand - is a promise of love and safety.

"Dad?" She opens her eyes.

"Veronica!" The chair scrapes on the floor and then her father is leaning over her, laughing through his tears.

She throws both arms around his neck and he crushes her in a hug. "I _knew_ you would come back to us!"

She buries her face in his soft, plaid shirt.

_Dad's here now! He can fix everything!_

Except...he can't this time. Even her father, the hero, can't bring back Logan.

A sob escapes before she can help herself and he pulls her tighter.

_It's okay to cry now. I'm safe._

Veronica unleashes her grief and her father smooths his hand over her hair, makes soothing noises, and promises she'll survive this.

"Sorry." She sniffles and pulls away. "I don't know what came over me."

"Never apologize. That's what I'm here for." Dad pushes buttons on the side rail, lifting her bed to a sitting position. "You must be pretty frustrated."

She snorts. "That's one word for it."

How long was she asleep? Dr. Joshi left her room somewhere around 4:30.

The analog clock on the wall reads 5:35, but the sky outside her window is darker than it should be, this time of year. The whiteboard by the door still lists the nurse-on-shift as KAREN.

Veronica drags the bedside table closer and swings it around over her lap. She pours herself some water, chugs most of it down in one long gulp and refills the cup.

"I talked to Dr. Joshi and your nurses, but why don't you tell me how you're doing?"

_I'm fine'_ is on the tip of her tongue - her first instinct is always to shield her father from anything upsetting - but his tear-stained shirt tells a different story.

"I'm a little disoriented. Weak, exhausted, but physically whole." _Emotionally destroyed._ "My brain is...maybe not 100%."

"How do you mean?"

"Words. Sometimes I can't find the right word for something."

"To describe how you're feeling?"

"No, I mean everyday words." She points to her right, past his shoulder. "I couldn't remember the word _couch_ this morning. How could I forget that?"

"Oh honey." Dad squeezes her hand. "You're recovering from a brain injury. You need to give yourself time."

And what else would she expect? He's not going to tell her she's permanently damaged. Even if she were. "I'm mostly frustrated that I can't go home."

"I know how much you hate feeling helpless, but you have to understand, your health and recovery matter more than anything else."

"I understand."

He's right, but for the wrong reasons. She needs to build her strength, because it would be suicidal to go after Jake and Gory from a position of weakness.

"You have a lot of people pulling for you, Veronica. People who love you and can't wait to see you up on your feet again."

_And that just makes them stupid._

As long as she's confined to this bed, she can't get her friends killed, injured, arrested, or expelled.

She doesn't want their forgiveness, their idle chit-chat or platitudes. They never even liked Logan, and she doesn't need them trying to speak for him. Telling her how he would want her to (a) take care of herself, (b) forgive, and (c), move on.

If only she could talk to someone who knew the _real_ Logan. The person behind the asshole facade. Someone who loved him too.

But nobody else loved Logan. He was utterly alone in this world, except for...

"I need to talk to Dick Casablancas. Can you convince him to come visit me?"

"Dick Casablancas?" Her dad raises one eyebrow. "My impression was that you didn't like him very much."

"Even less than that, but I'm considering starting a...project, and his input could be valuable."

He examines her with suspicious eyes, and she smiles back, sweetly.

_Nope. Not plotting vigilante vengeance here. Just an innocent project memorializing Logan. My great love and Dick's BFF._

"I'll see what I can do about the Casablancas kid," Her father says, finally. "I've been trying to reach your mother all afternoon to tell her you're awake, but she hasn't answered her phone."

"Maybe it's bad cell reception. No bars on the bar stool?" Veronica scratches at an ancient fleck of pink nail polish on her cuticle. _That should be a country song._   "Or maybe, the jukebox is louder than her ringer."

"Veronica..." Dad sighs.

"What?" She shrugs. "Like it's some big secret?"

Her mother is dead to her.

What kind of mom takes her daughter's life-savings and college fund not once, but twice?

Lianne's terrible choices robbed Veronica of the opportunity to attend Stanford last year, and if she'd attended Stanford, she never would've met Gory Sorokin. Or Piz, for that matter.

And Logan would still be alive.

_We might not BE together, but he would be out there somewhere. Alive and healthy. A crucial part of my future._

Conversation turns to one of Keith's recent cases.

Unable to help herself, Veronica shifts into work mode. Mentally assembling and rearranging the clues, and offering investigative suggestions.

"If only it were that easy." He shakes his head. "But unfortunately, doing that would make the evidence inadmissible."

"So what? We just need to catch him and hand over the photos..." She pauses and the pieces click into place. "Wait a minute. You're talking about criminal case."

He lifts an eyebrow. "Yes?"

"The election! " Veronica grips her father's arm. "You won? You're still the sheriff?"

"It's been a while since the election, but yes, I won."

"Oh thank God!" She sinks back into her pillow.

That's _one_ life she hasn't managed to destroy. Of course, there's still the question of how things worked out for Mac, Wallace, and Weevil.

And Logan's case. With her father as sheriff, the probability of Gory facing justice increased ten-fold.

Should she ask? Or would that just prompt demands for her to _'stay far_ _far_ _away from this case'_ ? Demands she has no intention of obeying.

_Then again, wouldn't it look even more suspicious for me NOT to ask?_

Inhaling for courage, she begins, "Dad, did you ever catch—"

The door to her room opens and her mother rushes in, platform wedges clomping on the Pergo. "Oh, Veronica! I just found out you're awake!"

She leans over, kissing Veronica's cheek, and vodka fumes waft from her breath.

"Sorry for dragging you away from your bar stool. Or was it the Camelot Motel?" Veronica wrinkles her nose and points to Lianne's rumpled blouse. "You missed a button."

Her mother recoils, one hand clutched to her chest.

Keith gasps. "Veronica!"

She ignores him, narrowing her eyes at the bitch who ruined her life.

Had she been with _him_ ? Is she taking _his_ side? Again? Like years ago, when he iced down his own daughter's body?

Hate burns like acid through Veronica's veins, corroding her last-remaining tender feelings for her mother.

"Veronica?" Lianne begins, timidly. "Did I...?"

"Leave."

Keith rises and places a hand on her shoulder. "Veronica, I know you're frustrated, but you can't speak to—"

"GET OUT OF MY GODDAMN ROOM, NOW!"

Footsteps pound down the corridor, and Nurse Karen rushes in. "What's going on here?"

"I don't know," Keith says, "Veronica was fine and then..."

Karen presses two fingers to Veronica's inner wrist. "Her blood pressure's elevated. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to ask you both to leave."

Her dad sighs and places a kiss on Veronica's forehead. "We'll be back tomorrow."

"Come alone."

She stares daggers at Lianne, who's backing-away toward the open door, crocodile tears running down her face.

Keith steps between them, breaking her line-of-sight. "I love you, Veronica. Your mother and I _both_ do." He gestures to a turquoise duffel bag, stashed under the chair. "I packed some clothes and toiletries, as well as a few books to keep you entertained."

"Thank you, Dad. I love you, too."

_Only you._

He stops in the doorway, gives her one last cryptic look, and leaves.

After dinner, Veronica spends an hour working on Operation Storm the Castle, but her progress is hindered without a laptop or internet.

She turns the page.

Dear Logan.

No. She can't use his name. She can just see the US Weekly headlines if anyone were to find it: VERONICA'S TRAGIC FINAL LETTER TO LOGAN.

She rips out the page, crumples it, and starts over.

Dear You,

Wallace once described you as a cat, with nine lives, and I think, subconsciously, I believed it. No matter what, you always landed on your feet, and we had decades to figure our shit out.

 

She writes for more than an hour. Until her fingers are cramped and her wrist aches.  It's a rambling, directionless, letter, including a list of twenty-three things she would do differently, knowing what she knows now. 

Logan had been no saint - far from it - nor had he been the immoral, directionless, wastrel she'd accused him of being, upon occasion.  She's had years to analyze his shortcomings. It her turn now.  

 

 

Morning brings strength for Veronica - both in body and in resolve.

The nausea and dizziness are gone and her appetite has returned.

She's as determined as ever to find justice for Logan, but this time, there can be no collateral damage. This mission - her last - will have to be solo.

Breakfast consists of bran flakes and milk, whole wheat toast and orange juice. She scarfs it down and asks for more.

Nurse Adele appears dubious, but returns with a bowl of vanilla yogurt. "I'm off work in fifteen minutes, so if you need anything else, you should tell me now."

"Nope. I'm fine."

"Okay, well take it easy, Veronica." Her eyes flick to the wheelchair. "Don't push yourself too hard this weekend, and I'll see you Sunday night."

Veronica waits the fifteen minutes - and another twenty to ensure Adele is really gone - then rolls herself into the bathroom.

She'd stolen the wheeled walker in the wee hours of the night, when the halls were silent and empty, and hid it in the shower stall, curtain pulled tight. Who would think to look in there?

Her legs are weak and wobbly, like a newborn colt, but she grits her teeth and pretends this is easy.

She clings to the frame and laps her room like she's walking bases.

First base (couch by the window).

Rest.

Second base (visitor's chair).

Rest.

Third base (bed).

Collapse onto face.

Home plate (wheelchair).

Prolonged rest.

Start over.

By the time her day nurse checks in on her, she's skipping every other base, and drenched in sweat.

Nurse Maddie is pretty and blonde, barely out of college, and exasperated. "Are you _trying_ to set back your recovery? Adele warned me you were tenacious. I should have listened."

"I'm just doing whatever it takes to go home and back to my life," Veronica says between gasps and flops down onto her wheelchair. "And now...I need a shower."

"I'll send in a nursing assistant to give you a sponge—"

"A _real_ shower. I stink."

"I don't think that's smart."

"Relax. I'll be a good little invalid and sit on the shower bench." Veronica wheels herself toward the bathroom, stopping momentarily next to the writing desk to retrieve her toiletry pouch from the bag her father packed for her.

Like the writing desk in her room, the bathroom vanity is the same wall-mounted granite with dark wood drawers. Low enough to reach the sink from a wheelchair.

A mirror dominates the wall behind it, making it impossible to avoid her reflection any longer.

She'd glimpsed herself for the first time last night, and while every feature is unchanged, something's _'off'_ about her face. Something she can't quite put her finger on. Maybe it's the gauntness - she's lost a decent amount of body weight - but she doesn't think that's it.

She unpacks the toiletry pouch, placing each item on the vanity. A hairbrush and several gold barrettes. Shampoo and conditioner, liquid body wash, a pink disposable razor and shaving cream, toothpaste, a toothbrush, and floss, face wash and moisturizer. Some of the brands are outdated, but not altogether bad for a single father.

The hairbrush is new, electric purple with matching balls on the tip of each black, plastic bristle. Removing a golden hair tie, she unravels the French braid that's been pulling at her scalp ever since she woke yesterday morning. Her crimped hair falls long over her shoulders. Too long.

She runs the brush through the length, glancing over at the doorway, where Maddie hovers, biting her lower lip in indecision. "Is this some kind of coma thing? Hair miraculously growing several inches in a three-month span?"

"Everybody's different, but it's not uncommon for hair and nails to grow at a rapid pace for some comatose patients."

Veronica stuffs the relevant products back into the pouch, looping the drawstring twice around her wrist. She rolls her wheelchair to the shower entrance and stands.

Sighing in resignation, Maddie turns on the water and adjusts the temperature. She helps Veronica out of her robe and hospital gown and onto the bench.

"I'll give you some privacy, but I'll be right out there. Call me when you're ready to get out." She pulls the thick white vinyl curtain closed and leaves the room.

Once she's gone, Veronica stands, with the help of the grab bars and turns up the hot water until the temperature is just short of unbearable.

So much for having cried herself out yesterday. Her sobs begin again as she lathers her too-long hair.

It's not fair.

In the lottery of life, Logan had been given everything other boys his age yearn for - money, power, fame, sex on-demand. He'd also possessed the wisdom to recognize it for the cold shallow existence it was.

His heart's desire had been for somebody to accept his overflowing love and give it back in return.

They had been so damn close. She'd only needed to learn how to outwardly demonstrate her inner emotions. A bit more time and they could have had it all.

She closes her eyes, summons him in her imagination.

He's behind her, his hard body pressed up against her back, slick and wet. He's running his hands down the outside of her arms, whispering all the things he's going to do to her.

Eyes still closed, she pretends it's _his_ long fingers massaging her scalp, scrubbing her skin clean from top to bottom.

Logan was not a selfless man; the kind to hope she would move on and find love again. No, if he had his way, she would spend the rest of her life single, masturbating to his memory. Given the means, he would haunt her forever.

_Haunt me, Logan. I welcome it._

He _would_ want her to make them pay - to burn down the city. But to do it safely. To not get caught.  Logan loved her at her best AND her worst.

Her hair is washed and conditioned, her skin, squeaky clean. She's shaved her legs and underarms. Still, she stands under the punishingly-hot water stream for what seems like an hour after the last soapy bubble circles down the drain.

She thinks of him. All of him - middle school, high school, college.

Fun, goofy, life-of-the-party Logan. Angry, vengeful Logan. Sensual, loving, tender, addictive, gorgeous, talented, mind-blowing, Logan. Even at the worst of times, they'd shared a connection like none other. He was everything.

 

Veronica turns off the shower and wraps a white towel around her hair, turban-style.

After carefully donning her robe, she eases into her wheelchair and returns to the vanity, where she brushes and flosses, washes and moisturizes. She towel-dries her hair, pulls it up into a high ponytail, and makes a mental note to add a haircut to her list of things to do once she's finally escaped.

Out in her room, Maddie helps Veronica dress in a pair of black yoga pants and an old pink tee-shirt with a green frog on it, and for the first time since waking yesterday, she feels almost human.

"I'll check back in around lunchtime." Maddie holds up the remote control. "Why don't you watch some TV in the meantime."

"Actually, I think I'd rather read." Veronica could not be _less_ interested in television, in watching life go on for other people. "Any chance I can get some coffee? Two sugars, two creams?"

"That shouldn't be a problem."

Maddie leaves and Veronica snags her duffel bag from the visitor's chair. She drapes the strap over her neck cross-body style and using the walker, slowly makes her way to the couch.

Once seated, she removes three paperback books from the bag - a true crime story, a mystery novel, and one that looks like a supernatural romance, of all things.  _No thank you!_

She drops the first and third on the side table, and turns over the mystery to read the back cover.

A chill seeps in through the window edges and when Maddie returns with her coffee, Veronica ask her to retrieve the fluffy red throw blanket from the bottom of the bed.

 

 

 

She cracks open the book and begins to read.

For every three chapters finished, she stands and does two laps around the room, clutching tightly to her walker.

It's exhausting work, but necessary if she wants to grow strong and healthy.

Lunch arrives. Chicken noodle soup, a tuna salad sandwich, mixed veggies (broccoli, cauliflower, carrots) and a fruit cup. Chocolate milk for a drink.

The nurse's assistant brings the over-bed table to her, adjusting it to couch-height, and Veronica inhales every bite. Makes a note to ask Dad to bring her some healthy snacks.

The mystery picks up its pace, and she becomes so engrossed in the clues and red herrings that she doesn't immediately register the arrival of a new visitor until the room's door clicks shut.

Glancing up, she does a double-take.

_Holy shit!_

"Duncan? You're back?"

_Is he crazy? Does he think the feds won't find him here?_

He rushes across the room, drops to his knees in front of Veronica, and pulls her into his arms. Squeezes the air from her lungs. "Of course, I'm back. I've been here at least three times a week since the accident."

On second thought, she detects nothing furtive or sneaky about his demeanor. The Kanes must've cut a deal to bring him home. Probation? Community service? A slap on the wrist?

_Logan's dead, but god forbid the Kane heir does jail time._

Finally releasing her, Duncan presses a soft kiss to her lips and takes a seat next to her on the couch. "God, I've missed you so much!"

Veronica fights her urge to recoil. He can't possibly believe they're going to pick right up where they left off. Right? Sure, he'd sworn he would love her forever, but that was teenage drama, not a binding vow. And she, pointedly, had not returned the sentiment.

He looks the same, for the most part. Blue jeans, striped polo shirt. Dark hair, styled the same as it's always been, blue eyes. Handsome.

It occurs to her that Nurse Adele must have been referring to _Duncan,_ not Piz, as the boyfriend the other nurses gossiped about.

Is he telling people she's his girlfriend? Or had they just assumed?

Duncan takes both her hands in his own. Normal-sized. Soft. _All-wrong_ .

He stares at her with a mixture of relief and adoration. _Has_ _he forgotten about senior year and Meg, and possibly-Kendall?_

"We heard about you waking up this morning and I came as soon as I could get away."

Veronica's eyes drift to the wall clock.  3:15 PM.  

_We?_   Logan's dead and his relationships with the other 09ers were superficial at best. Who's left?

The answer is as obvious as her luxury room and VIP treatment. _Jake Kane._ For all she knows, the nurses are sending him progress reports.

Duncan adjusts his collar self-consciously under her intense gaze.

_Right. At least try being polite, Veronica._

He might be useful later. In fact, she should probably revise her plan to account for this unexpected resource.

"So...how is your family?"

She doesn't actually care, but it's smart to obtain a baseline before destroying someone. Makes it so much more satisfying in the end when you can measure just how far your victim has fallen.

"The same. Cold, distant, always pushing." He shrugs, scrunches his nose, and then smiles. "I can't get over the fact that you're actually awake and speaking to me. These past few months have been hell for me."

_Tell that to Logan._

She changes the subject. "So, where's Lilly now?" She would be...what? Two years old? Three?

"Stuck with my parents for the moment, but you'll get to see her later."

_Good. Fill up on as much grandpa-time as possible. While you still can._

Veronica wants to ask a million more questions - she'd committed a felony to save that baby, after all - but her bladder suddenly throbs, protesting the two chocolate milks and the entire pitcher of water she guzzled before his arrival. She offers him a weak smile. "Can you excuse me for a second? I need a bathroom break."

"Of course. Do you need help walking?"

"I'm okay. Maybe you could just help me stand up? I can take it from there."

Duncan stands, and supports her elbow as she rises from the couch.

"Thanks." She grips her walker tightly, and slowly hobbles into the bathroom.

After finishing up, she washes her hands and splashes cold water on her face.

On the one hand, Duncan is exactly what she needs - someone who genuinely loved Logan. Somebody who can relate to her grief and loss. On the other hand, she can barely stand to look at him.

It may be irrational, but his face only reminds her of the time she wasted on him senior year, when she could have been with Logan. She'd allotted him too many grains of sand from her metaphorical hourglass, and Logan too few.

She dries her face on a hand towel and fixes her ponytail. Stares at her indescribably-different face in the mirror.

Outside, somebody new enters her hospital room, slamming the door behind them. 

Duncan speaks, his voice muffled by the thick wooden bathroom door. "Took you long enough. I was starting to think security ran you off."

"Please. I had to distract Nurse Maddie while you slipped past, but she was hoping for distractions of an entirely different sort. I had to fight her off with a stick."

"You wish!" Duncan says.

The second person draws closer, voice growing clearer. "I did get a look at the rotation schedule, though, and we should have at least an hour before anyone comes in to toss us out."

Goosebumps erupt over Veronica's entire body. Every hair stands on end - from her forearms to the back of her neck. She silently eases open the bathroom door, heart lodged in her throat.

The newcomer sits on her hospital bed, one leg dangling. He glances up, grins, and gives her a little finger wave. "Hey, you."

Veronica swallows and stares into the very-much-alive eyes of Logan Echolls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know what you're thinking. No possible way. Nobody could possibly be back on their feet - even with a walker - after a 3-month coma. 
> 
> And to that I say, Bold of you to assume Veronica Mars is a mere mortal. ;) 
> 
> In all seriousness, I had a choice between realism and telling the story I wanted to tell, Hello, Hollywood coma!


End file.
